


'though the truth may vary this/ship will carry our bodies safe to shore'

by artyartie



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Big Bang Challenge, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:33:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artyartie/pseuds/artyartie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki and Sif, two maritime archaeologists, have found the Casket of Ancient Winters on the wreck of the Asgard.  And they may or may not have fallen in love.  When a Frenchwoman claims the Casket was stolen from her family centuries ago, Sif, the Odinsons (and their staff, Jane and Darcy) have to make a stake on the artifact - but the past may be coming back to haunt them in ways none of them can possibly imagine.  Modern Day AU - and then some - and written for the inaugural lokixsif Big Bang!  With artwork by the awesome bechedor79!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Jade, for all her encouragement and enabling, and likewise to my Tumblr gang for the same. Thanks to bechedor79, who made a beautiful drawing for this fic, which is truly amazing. And a huge, huge thank you to my beta, Segris, who not only did this in record time, but had invaluable suggestions and edits. To all of you awesome people, a million internets!

Santa Fe, NM - Present Day

 

Loki counted it a good day when he could spend an entire day at the office and leave with only one homicidal urge.

Carrying on a brief but intimate liaison with Sif, one of their grad students, made that more difficult.   After they hauled up the Casket of Ancient Winters from the ocean floor, he’d been foolish enough to give her a kiss, with the entire dive boat as an audience.  It would be a miracle if he made it back to his teaching position in Exeter and back to the sanctity of England in a few weeks without at least a good mauling.

“So, are you going to stop at A&M on your way back? And how’s Sif, anyway?”  The upward glide in Darcy’s tone made Loki wish he had something weightier than a ball of paper to hurl in her general direction.

“Very well, thank you.  And very busy.”  Loki sighed as he glanced to an equally moon-eyed Thor and Jane.  “Which would be a novelty in this office.”

Darcy pffffed. “I’ll have you know I am plenty busy.”

“Yes, and what level of Candy Crush Saga are you on?”

“I need something to do when I’m on hold with the Danish Embassy.  But who do you think keeps all these projects going?  I’m like a one-woman U.N. here.”

Jane coughed.   She raised an eyebrow at Darcy as she perched on Thor’s desk, trying to pluck an apple out of his hand.

“Okay, two woman U.N.  But you’re getting us off the topic, and that topic is your summer of love.”  Darcy fluttered her eyes, and moved to the top of Loki’s list of people to maim.

“It’s not love.  It was...a mutual means of working out tension.  Neither of us are romantic.  We’re pragmatic."

Darcy smirked.  “I heard you guys were pragmatic a lot.”

“Hey, if Sif and Loki want to keep things professional, then good for them.”  Jane raised her coffee mug to the younger Odinson.

“I’m so glad at least one other person here has sense,” Loki said to Jane.

“Thank you,” Jane said, beaming.  “Sif sounded completely professional when she called yesterday, too.”

“She called? And she didn’t even ask to speak with me?”  No sooner had Loki fumbled for his iPhone to look for a missed call that may have slipped his notice than the inhabitants of the room dissolved into giggles.

“Not romantic, eh brother?” Thor winked.  “You’re just as sentimental as the rest of us.”

“I am not going to sit here and be the object of your mockery,” Loki said, sweeping his books, papers, and pens into his arms with a little more violence than he intended.  “I’ll be in the courtyard.  If any of you need me, do hold your inquiries until you have more emotional maturity than a pack of schoolyard children.”

 

* * *

 

“And I thought your usual would make a good apology for before.” The little atrium in the small converted adobe was known as Loki’s sanctuary, even if everyone felt no shame in violating it.  It was a secluded garden, overrun with sage and honeysuckle. Thor walked over to the stone table where Loki was sitting, a white styrofoam container in hand.  “I thought maybe you’d forgotten to eat.  I know how you do lose yourself in your work.”

“Apologizing?  Whenever did you learn to do that?”  Though he knew damn well it was Jane who made sure he knew when to say sorry.  Loki crossed his arms across his chest.  He wouldn’t be bought off so easily, though his stomach growled as he caught the hint of chile and cheese.

“Brother-”

“What has you more upset?  That she came to my bed and not yours, or that the little boy who used to follow you about has come into his own?”

“Now you are simply being foolish.  I am in love with Jane-”

“You’ve been in love with many women, and more than a few at the same time.  Another way in which you are so much like our father.”  

“Loki, I came in peace!  Things have been well between us-”

“Better than their usual sorry state is hardly well.”

“It is an improvement I will take.  And I am sorry if my teasing made you think otherwise.”

Loki sighed, looking up to the impossible expanse of blue sky, framed by the swaying cottonwood trees.  “Is it such a laughing matter, that a woman like Sif should want to be with me?”

“Hardly.”  Thor sat down across from Loki.  “You’ve always had women like Sif practically throwing themselves at your feet.  You just usually had your head so buried in a book you never noticed."

Loki grumbled at his brother’s observation, even if there was more than a little truth to it.

“She’s quite a woman, to make you actually notice her.”

“She is.”  Loki remembered the bright fierceness of her smile, her boldness in the field and in bed.  “We both know what it’s like - to be on the outside, to have to fight for our place.”

“Both of you have more than proved your worth,” Thor said, clapping him across the shoulders, leaving his hand there in a reassuring pat.  “Do you love her, brother?”

Loki often heard he had a silver tongue, but it felt like lead in his now cottony mouth.  “I don’t know.  Love is something for children-”

Thor coughed.

Loki cleared his throat.  “Alright, children and sentimental fools, but we both can tolerate the other. That is a start.”

“And does she make you happy?”

Loki allowed a small smile to grace his lips.  “She makes me forget to be miserable.”

Thor drew him to yet another of his suffocating hugs.  “I am glad she does so.  You have been miserable for far too long.”

Mercifully, the slam of the patio door interrupted the awkward emotional moment, and all the memories Loki would rather soon forget.  Darcy stumbled out, cheeks flushed, hands nearly shaking.

“You need to talk to your girlfriend,” she said to Loki, her voice devoid of her usual humor.

“We slept together the one time.  That hardly makes her my girlfriend.”

“Fine, you need to talk to the other person who discovered the Casket and one of the only ten people in the world who know it exists.”

Thor frowned.  “Darcy, what’s wrong?”

“I just got a call from someone in Paris, says the Casket was stolen from her family.”

“The casket has been underwater over two hundred years.  I fail to see how it could be stolen goods.”

“That’s what I tried to say.  I double checked every line in our permits. But the problem isn’t with us, it’s with the casket.”

“How so?”

“Because whatever 18th century douchebag had it on the Asgard, evidently, decided to take first, ask questions never.”

 

* * *

 

College Station, TX - Present Day

  

“Who the hell is Monique Lafee?  And where was she a year ago?”

The ‘Warriors Three,’ as they were so known after one particularly eventful field school in Turkey, shrugged.  They were stuffed in the glorified closet that was Sif’s office, perched on desks and chairs and practically in each others laps, which was sometimes a tricky propsition with Volstagg’s girth, and a dangerous one with Fandral’s wandering hands.

“She keeps her family archives private, and she might be lying about the whole thing.  Don’t get too worked up about it before you have to.”  Volstagg pressed a steady hand to her shoulder, and Sif had to just stand still and breathe instead of whirl away.  “Even if she’s the one who keeps it, you’ll always be the one who discovered it.”

“The Casket doesn’t belong locked up with her china.”  Sif tossed back the last of her coffee, the good stuff they brought back from St. Croix.  She never bothered with sugar or cream, and mornings like this she wished there was a more extreme setting than black.

Fandral grinned. “It belongs in a museum?”  

Sif knew every bad joke and movie quote in Fandral’s vocabulary, but she still groaned at the reference to her fedora-clad fictional counterpart.

“Yes it does, Dr. Jones,” Sif said, rolling her eyes at the blond.  "Damn it, when I held it - I know this sounds crazy but it felt like it was important. It has a bigger purpose than sitting in someone’s china cabinet.”  She sighed and dropped her head into her hands.  “I just don’t know what it is.”

“Don’t listen to any of them.  I say if she wants to be sentimental and overprotective, she’s earned the right.  The Casket’s her baby, in a way..”  Volstagg might be a big lugg but he always knew what to say.

“Her and Loki Odinson’s little lovechild, you mean.”  Sif punched Fandral’s shoulder, hard enough to nearly knock him off his perch on her desk.

“Don’t even start.”  Sif raised a single brow.  “We found the casket, we had a little too much to drink-”

“Oh, you two were all over each other the moment we got there.”  Fandral grinned, still rubbing where Sif had decked him.  “Seriously, we were this close to having a betting pool on when you two would finally hook up.”

“Which I would have won,” Volstagg boasted.

Sif groaned.  The man had no brain to mouth filter at all.  “So we resolved our sexual tension. Considering you’ve hooked up with half the women on the Mediterranean coast, this is beyond the pot calling the kettle black.”  Her pocket vibrated loud enough for the entire room to hear, and she rolled her eyes as as the caller’s name flashed across the screen

Damn Loki and his timing.

“I need to take this, so out,” she said, thumbing the green answer key.  Of course, they only looked less inclined to leave, and she had to slap Fandral’s wandering hand away from her phone.  “Seriously, my lab, my rules, my semblance of privacy.  And if you could do some research and not gossip like little girls, that would be fabulous.”

Sif shooed a winking Fandral away from the door and raised the phone to hear a familiar chuckle.

“Have I told you,” Loki whispered, a soft chuckle in his words,  “how much I adore a woman who takes charge?”   

A tingling warmth shot through all Sif’s limbs, his tone making her wish for a bed, a closed door, and him.  “You might have mentioned that at some point.” Sif smirked, leaning back in her chair.  “Lafee’s lawyers just called, said they’d talked to you.  Please don’t tell you’re considering giving it back.”

“Darcy’s looking into her claim.  She thinks our best case might be proving Lafee’s family obtained it illegally in the first place.”

“The Elgin Marbles defense?” Sif sighed, rubbing at her temples.  “Not exactly working out for Greece, but it would be a shot.  Except you know we never could narrow down where it was from.”

“Think you could go back to Copenhagen to see if you can pull off an eleventh hour save?”

Sif blinked.  “You do remember being a graduate student?  Disposable income wasn’t exactly part of the experience.”

Loki chuckled softly.  “I try not to remember that miserable time. But if you would just wait, I was going to mention it was on our dime.  Legal drama and dives with the Odinsons have a tendency of going hand-in-hand."

“Well then.  I’ll have my bags packed.”  Sif wished for a phone cord to twirl around her fingers.  “Are you going too? I'm more than capable of doing this on my own, but it might help to have more than one person on the case.”

God, subtlety was not her strong suit.

“I have to go back to Christiansted. The preservation team is just about done, and it wouldn’t hurt to be on site, especially if Lafee sends her own people to examine her so-called stolen goods.”  He paused, and Sif could hear Santa Fe: the tolling of a bell over the lively ¾ beat of a mariachi band.  “If I was there, perhaps we could research the Casket’s origins from both sides.”

Sif traced a hand along her collarbone. Volunteering to help with archive work was better than roses and chocolate.  “A transatlantic tag team? You know, you could help me verify my theory."

“The Lady and the Liar rear their ugly heads again?”

“He was in Copenhagen when the casket was possibly on display.  And other authors confirm there was a St. Croix heiress there, making her rounds around the salons.  It’s not that far fetched.”  As her fingernails dug into the hollow just beneath her shoulder, Sif realized protective may be an understatement when it came to her and anything connected to the Casket.

“You never managed to get past their pseudonyms, and you've been on this for years. Do you really think I have a chance?"

“Are you telling me your ego isn't up for the challenge?"  Sif’s fingers stopped gouging and instead traced slow, teasing circles up her neck.  

Her hand was not Loki, in so many ways.

“Oh, my ego is more than willing to rise to the occasion."  Loki was out in public, she was sure, so no self-groping for him, but Sif was willing to take on the burden for them both.

“Just your ego?"  Sif bit her lip, fingers brushing against teeth and skin and tongue.  “I’ll go, but on one condition.”

“Only one?  I was ready for much harder negotiations.” Of course he’d use that particular adjective.

“A ticket from Copenhagen to Christiansted.  I don’t care how many transfers it takes.  If that bitch is going to take the Casket, I want one last look at it.” Sif paused before her admission.  “And it wouldn’t be horrible to see you again.”

“Such flattery."  Loki cleared his throat.  “If you can get a flight, we’ll cover it.  And consider your room at the house open.  I’m leaving in the morning but keep me updated.”  He cleared his throat again.  “On the research, I mean.”

“Of course.”  She stroked her thumb along the side of her phone, wishing it was him she was touching.  “You got an early flight to catch.  Better get to bed.”

"That would be much more enjoyable if you were here."  Loki made it sound so easy, as if driving half a day to New Mexico for one night was a reasonable proposition.

Sif snorted, leaning back in her creaky, third-hand office chair.  "You wouldn't get any sleep."

Loki laughed, throaty and full.  "Good lord, I would hope not."

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An 18th century interlude sheds light on the Casket, how it came to be on the Asgard, and the lives of two witty, intelligent figures who cannot stand one another yet who are central to the story, the Lady and the Liar.

Copenhagen, Denmark - 1793

  

Women were the emissaries and heralds of distraction.  They were phenomena he, known amiably and less so as the Liar, had no interest in pursuing.

That was, until he met the Lady.

On first glimpse, she was nothing remarkable.  Her hair, an unremarkable shade of brown, was pulled into a braided crown he’d seen upon a dozen heads.  Her gown was a fetching shade of red but its cut was at least two seasons old, and had been hemmed more than once.  When she spoke, he could not help but hear the creole tongue she tried to hide, her vowels sounding more akin to a tomcat’s warbles, her there’s turned into horrid, mangled ‘deh’s.

A creole, then, or one resident so long she had degenerated in mind, body, and speech.

“Some say she is an heiress of sorts.” The Liar’s companion of the moment, an Englishman with a rounded belly that swelled atop his breeches and an equally rounded countenance, offered his estimation of the woman.

“If so she is a poor one at that, and while her father may have possessed wealth once, her gown suggests he frivolled it away on rum or whatever they subsist on in the Indies.  Remarkable he still possessed the money to educate a daughter.  I imagine he does not have any sons - besides those of the natural persuasion often found on the islands.”  The Liar ignored the Englishman’s distress at the frankness of his assessment.  “To some she may be intriguing, but she hardly interests me.”

“I can scarcely catch your attention and yet you speak so decidedly concerning me,” came a female voice from behind him. He withheld showing an indication of surprise at her sudden presence and turned to face the harpy-voiced creature from the West Indies. Her lips curled into a smile, and she arched a single eyebrow. “You have a curious definition, sir, of what is worthy of your interest.”

“They were observations made from the slightest glimpse of your person.”  His face must be a mirror to hers, disdain masked with the most proper decorum. “I am sorry if it is so easy a thing to read the truth you so wish to hide.”

“There would be no need to conceal such matters were it not for the prejudices against those born in the Americas - prejudices I would imagine you, sir, hold.”  Her words and bearing were still unfailingly polite, but they stung like nettles against his ears.

“I have yet to meet a creole man who would convince me otherwise.”  He shrugged, intending to turn, to let those words be the last she hear from him.

“And there is your mistake.  You have yet to meet a creole woman.”  The Lady’s fan swatted his shoulder with a dismissive disdain, before its holder glided to the other end of the room.

The Liar admitted his jaw hung open a few moments longer than his liking.  The woman was plain, and if what they said of European women raised up in the tropics, a degenerate, but her challenge made her beguiling.

He had yet to meet a creole woman, that was correct.  Sipping at his brandy, he padded in her direction, seeking to correct this possibly grave oversight.

 

 

* * *

 

“Beg pardon, sir, I am trying to listen to the lecture.  Some of us are here for our intellectual betterment.”

It had taken a healthy bribe to secure a seat next to the lady in the crowded hall, but it was well worth his investment.  She wore a dove gray gown and a crimson shawl that was utterly fetching, wearing her hair in a looser, more natural style.

“Some would say a woman educating herself on-”  The Liar paused, forgetting the topic of the lecture.  “Ah, on the latest find in Viking artifacts to be a rather futile gesture.”

“At least I am paying attention, or was before your unfortunate appearance.  Those men,” she said, indicating a pair of men, their heads bowed, “ they may have well stayed home and conducted research on dreams.”

“I will concede you that.”  He stroked a hand across his chin.  “Why, then, do you wish to better yourself in such a curious manner?”

The Lady laughed, louder than perhaps she intended, but her smile seemed to soothe any in the audience she agitated.  “Is that not what the world has been doing in this age?  My physical freedom is fleeting, my legal freedom laughable, but my mind and my soul are mine, and I would nurture them, feed them, as much as any man, and I need no reason besides that.  One might even say women desire freedom for their intellect, for we are denied it in so many other things.”

“For one who makes a living upon his words, I must say, yours are well chosen.”

“You make a living upon your words?”  The Lady raised a delicately arched brow, and turned her focus back to the speaker.  “I should have been more charitable, knowing I was speaking to one so indigent.”

As the Liar drifted back to ruminating upon the beauty of Viking weaponry, he allowed himself a subtle smile at this woman who was, begrudgingly, his verbal equal.

 

* * *

 

“Another lecture? You are positively insatiable.”

The Lady flicked him lightly with her fan, the gesture more affectionate, he imagined, the air inside the drawing room already humid and close.  “Quiet now.  People may gather the entirely false impression about us.”

“You don’t presume they don’t?”

The Lady seemed to orbit in his many Copenhagen circles, and he found himself gravitating towards her ever more.  Her wit only grew more sparkling, the longer he lingered in her presence, and as her mind grew ever sharper in his eyes, so her form seemed even lovelier to his sight.  

Even the brush of the mere paper in her hand upon his arm set all of him alight.

“I could give a fig for what idling gossips have to say.  So let them prattle on.”  Nudging at his elbow, she guided them towards two empty chairs.  “But if you so much as open your mouth during this lecture, I shall punish you severely.”

He was certain of the truth of her words.  Alas, the promise of her punishment and his speculation as to what form it would take, meant he paid precious little attention to the talk, an exposition by Comtess La Fee on an intricate glass and metal artifact she insisted on calling the Casket of Ancient Winters.

 

* * *

 

“It was clearly Scandanavian, not Gaulish!  Even a rank amateur could see based upon the design.”

He sighed as a perfectly good picnic was ruined by the vexingly persistent argument about the artifact’s origins.  The Comtesse insisted by its origins in Northern France that it was Gaulish - the Lady had been hissing like a goose it was Danish, perhaps Norwegian, since they departed the emigre’s salon.

“I am merely saying you’re far too quick to dismiss her account.  The Comtesse discovered it, and seemed an intelligent woman, so perhaps we should allow her the benefit of the doubt.”

The Lady lobbed a barrage of grapes across the bend of his knees.  “She was beguiling, and winning, but intelligent?  You, as usual, have an odd definition of the term.”

The Liar grinned as he caught one of the luscious missiles and popped it between his lips.  “Perhaps you have set my bar entirely too low.”

“You are a wicked man,” she exclaimed, her scandalously bare hand clenching tight around his stockinged knee.

His very limbs seemed to blaze as he licked at his lips.  “That should hardly be a surprise, my de-”

The sudden press of her lips, soft as roses and ardent as fire, very much surprised him.  When she drew back, her pale cheeks flushing crimson, it was some moments before he was able to speak.  

“Almost an entire minute of blessed silence,” she said, grasping his chin in one of her smooth, pale hands.  “Now I only wished I’’d silenced you in such a manner before.”

He drew her into his embrace, the warmth of her body shaming the sun and all his rays.  He would prattle on all day and night if he could convince her to silence him so again and again.

 

* * *

 

Their attendance at Copenhagen’s many lectures soon took a precipitous decline.  It was not for lack of curiosity, merely that their intellectual pursuits were now joined to more physical, intimate activities.

Mindful of the need to preserve her honor, their liaisons were in the home of a man he implicitly trusted, a straw-haired libertine with a charming smile who especially enjoyed the company of married women.  They had sumptuous dinners, a witty host, an expansive bed, and more important of all, the luxury of privacy.

That first night in her presence taught him more about gravity than any lecturer ever would.  He would swear to even the most vehement Cartesian that bodies were inherently attracted, were meant to orbit, and sometimes collided in the most fantastic of ways.  She tugged at his cravat, he at her gown, and from there it was an inevitable progression to their two warm, naked bodies upon the meager bed in his room, and he wasn’t sure what groaned louder, he or the bed.  Her body was exquisite - white as pearl those places the sun never touched, hands, mouth, and eyes with all the eagerness to explore of a Cook or la Condamine.

It was a delirious night, one repeated many times over, one he fervently hoped would become a repeat engagement.

An innocent-seeming envelope, which arrived a few weeks later, dashed those hopes far sooner than he intended, as did the tearful parting at the Nyhaven, and the sight of her small boat, carrying her person, and his heart, to their passage across the sea.

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki and Sif are on the opposite sides of the Atlantic, but on the same trail of the Lady and the Liar. Sif has an illuminating and somewhat uncomfortable lunch date, and even thousands of miles away, Darcy still knows how to push Loki's buttons.

St. Croix, USVI - Present Day

 

“So, you're off in paradise. Again. And I'm stuck here. Again. Land of Enchantment my ass.”

Loki rolled his eyes.  He did not have the patience for another Darcy rant.  “I’m so pleased you don’t hide your feelings, Darcy.  But we need at least one person in the office to handle this fiasco, and need I remind you of the last time my brother tried to handle the nuances of international law.”

Darcy laughed, which she certainly did not do during the incident in question.  “Hey, Canada and Denmark called it off before they went to war, and I now have a kick-ass essay for grad school if I ever decide to go.  Good times.”  

“You have the oddest definition of the word good.”  Loki narrowly avoided a taxi as it swerved around him.  The 21st century seemed out of place on the city’s narrow streets.

Darcy, of course, was oblivious to his near traffic accident.  “I like to think of it as broad.  Your dad says if you need to bring in the big guns, he and your mom can be over as soon as you need them if this Lafee woman is a major pain in the ass.”

“That’s...considerate,” Loki replied.  He could think of other words, meddling chief among them, but he held his tongue.  “But I think she’s well within our purview.  Unless your current model of research involves heavy amounts of Facebook and tumblr.” 

“Man, you are a bright little ray of sunshine.  I have no idea what Sif sees in you, except the fact you’re a tiger in the sack.”  Darcy paused, and Loki was certain there was a shit-eating grin on her face.  “So I’ve heard.”

Loki held the phone out as he heard the tone for an incoming call.  Just this once, he wished he was Facetiming with Darcy so she could see just how icy his glare was.  "She sees enough in me to keep calling.  So stop talking and get back to work, would you?”

“Okay, okay, Mr. Cranky Pants-”

Loki mercifully cut Darcy off and thumbed over to Sif’s call.

“You have really miserable standards in women.  How did you ever have the sense to be interested in me?”  

“You saved me from Darcy. I should adore you just for that.”  He ducked into a small alleyway, leaned against a peeling pink wall that still smelled of urine, despite the breeze coming off the ocean.

“I must have horrific standards in men,” Sif said, the wryness of her voice making him warm in a way no tropical heat ever could.

Loki ran a hand across the sweat-slicked back of his neck.  "Finished?"

"For now."

"This may inflate your ego entirely too much, but I may have a few leads on this Liar of yours.”  Loki smirked; a moment of triumph was gratifying. “One is particularly intriguing - a surgeon aboard an East Indianman who was something of an naturalist, possibly university educated on the Continent. He showed up around the time the Asgard sank."

"He sounds familiar. Correro at UWI mentioned him a few months ago - I hadn't gotten a chance to check him out yet."  Loki could hear the doubt before Sif even spoke again.  “Why do you think he might be our guy?”

"Because if he is your Liar, he paid a visit to a plantation on the island.  A few locals seemed to have noticed - nothing like a little bit of scandal to get something into the archival record, since there seemed to be a young unmarried woman involved."   

Sif let loose a stream of profanities that even made him blush.  “Where did he go? Does he have a name?"

"It’s all allusion and hints - propriety is miserable a few hundred years later.”  Gossip might get tongues to wagging and pens to writing, but they never left all the details Loki wanted.  “I might have it by the time you're here. How're things in Copenhagen?"

Sif gave an odd little laugh, one that made Loki’s fingers curl tenderly around the phone. "Funny you should ask. I have one interesting lunch date tomorrow."

 

* * *

 

For an archaeology grad student, Sif could dress to kill when it counted.  

A snug grey sleeveless dress came just to mid-thigh, showing off two months worth of diving.  She accented the dress with black leather ankle boots, a crimson cashmere wrap, and a silver crescent strung on a delicate chain.  Sif’s hair was half pulled back, left to hang in undulating auburn waves at the front.

The outfit had cost her half her monthly stipend, but damn, it was worth it.

Especially when Madame Lafee was more like a Mademoiselle.

She was the image of the Comtesse, if the Comtesse had a sleek, asymmetrical haircut, raven tresses framing her strong features, eyes as blue as Thor’s, striking against ivory skin.  Lafee’s figure was slim and muscular, accentuated by a deep blue sateen dress that shimmered in tight spirals.  The woman looked six feet tall at least, but she still had the chutzpah to wear heels.

“You must be Sif.”  Damn, even Lafee’s accent was hot.

“I must be.”  Sif slid into the chair the waiter offered.  “I admit, I was surprised to get your call.  Surprised you were even here.”

“I had my suspicions Odin would be sending someone to Copenhagen,”  Lafee smirked as her eyes raked over the wine list, then back at Sif.  “Didn’t know you’d become a member of the family so fast.”

Sif raised a brow, but merely smiled.  She wasn’t giving this woman any sort of satisfaction.  “They must like me.”

“At least one of them does.”  Sif set the wine list down.  “What do you say to the 2008 Domaine Leflaive Puligny-Montrachet Les Folatières 1er Cru?”

“I say one bottle might not be enough.”  Sif racked up a mental point as Lafee leaned back in her seat, drumming manicured nails on the white tablecloth.  “We have a lot to discuss.  Hopefully ending with a dismissal of this claim on the Casket.”

Lafee chuckled, her blue eyes fixing on Sif.  “Ah, so optimistic.  Though of all the outfits to find what is rightfully mine, well, I couldn’t ask for anyone better than you and the Odinsons.  I’m quite curious to see what will happen.”

“That depends on the courts, and just so you know, the Odinson’s counsel?  She’s good.”  Okay, Darcy was sometimes wildly unreliable and she didn't have a law degree, but she could get the job done when she was so inclined..

“Oh, I’m not worried about this little legal matter.”  Lafee’s gaze was now almost uncomfortable.  “That, my dear, is trivial.  Beneath us.  Tell me, what do you know of the casket?”

Sif did not check the urge to roll her eyes.  “Artifact of late whatever age Origin.  Composed of glass and a yet unknown metal alloy.  Acquired by your family through somewhat dubious means, vanished from Europe in the 1790s, showed up on the floor of the Caribbean Sea.  Seriously, we could have just e-mailed you the lab reports.”

Lafee merely smiled again, in that same unsettling manner.  “Again, so very prosaic.  The Casket is more than lovely.  It touches those whom it chooses, affects those whom it chooses, and some in our family were affected most profoundly.  As were liars and thieves who chose to covet and steal what was not theirs.”

“Oh, it’s touched me, to the point I’m not giving up what my research found without a fight.”

“It hasn’t begun to affect you, but I promise you, you’ll know it.”  Lafee sipped casually at her wine.  “As will the young Dr. Odinson.  Tell me, is young Loki all alone in Christiansted?”

Sif merely shrugged her shoulders, even as she inwardly seethed.  “Christiansted? Thought he was in Santa Fe.”

“You are an exceedingly poor liar.  You shouldn’t do it often.”  Lafee patted Sif’s hand with freezing fingers, and Sif jerked away more out of instinct than anything else. “But do send my regards.  I’ve followed his career from afar and I admit, I’ve developed an almost motherly affection for the boy.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lady and the Liar are reunited in St. Croix, where the Liar has brought a gift - and has a question to ask of the Lady. That is, if the Lady's formidable brother will let him ask.

St. Croix, Danish West Indies - 1793

 

Captain Howe pressed his callused palm into the Liar’s hand, but did not offer even a coin. The philosopher turned naturalist turned surgeon may have kept the men alive during both a briefly terrifying bout of typhoid and an unexpected bout of scurvy when the trade winds slipped to barely more than a breeze, but this was only worth more effusive praise, not any sort of monetary recompense.

He could have found a naval vessel, but his precious cargo dictated he choose the first vessel leaving Copenhagen heading towards the Indies.   The merchant captain had asked few questions, and was sufficiently dazzled by his Leiden degree and assurance of basic competence in the medical arts to trade his service for passage to Christiansted.  

The ports were bustling, ships swarming the harbor now that the stormy and sickly seasons were at their ebb.  There was a fair amount of Danish, but a smattering of French, English, what he figured to be Dutch, and the altogether foreign tongues of the slaves.

It was impossible to ignore the island's other trade, that which sustained its entire economy. Auction blocks teemed with the newly arrived slaves, naked and polished to a dark shine. Markets bustled with slave women in bright skirts, some bare-breasted save for thin muslins draped across their shoulders, hair done up in crowns of brightly colored kerchiefs.

He had not thought terribly much about the matter, and he did not share the Lady's abolitionist zeal, but as he passed what he took to be a slaver, and the sickly sweet smell of sweat, feces, and terror, saw the markets packed with dark, glistening human goods and surrounded by a ring of faces appraising said beings as if they were less-than-prize livestock, he felt a twinge of disapproval.  Yet was this not the order of life, that some were simply meant to be lorded over by others?

He would have to quelch the former reaction, at least in the presence of Sif’s family, for her father’s perilous fortune rested upon the backs and arms of those pitiful beings.  He managed to barter for a porter to carry his things, impressing upon him the worth of the box which he held in his hands.  It was a long, hot, and dusty passage through the waves of cane fields, to his long-awaited destination.

He knew his face must be covered with dust, his breeches as gritty as the rest of him, but Sif was a vision sweeter and surer than the little speck of green had been from the deck of the ship only the day before.  Her raven hair was pulled back, her face shielded from the bright sun by a straw bonnet tied loosely under her chin with dark blue ribbons, her form clad in a simple yet elegant gown of white muslin embroidered with delicate blue flowers.  She blinked in surprise, and then her face illuminated with a brilliant if bemused smile as he rushed forward to greet her.  

“What are you doing here?"

“If that is a philosophical question, I've not the faintest idea. If it is a specific enquiry, you, my dear, are the answer.”  He drew her near for another kiss, heedless of whether her father was watching with disapproval.  A quick glance showed her father was not even in sight, though a tall, brooding man with dark skin was observing them with a distinctly unhappy look on his severe visage.

“I had no idea you were to come!  Unless it was in a letter now at the bottom of the Atlantic or on a damn warship.”  Her visage was ebullient, if deeply confused.

“I might have made the reference too subtle,” he admitted, his hands resting upon her shoulders.  “And I may have had reasons for wishing to leave Copenhagen sooner rather than later.”

“And who have you angered now with your slander?”

“It’s not slander if it’s true, and I shall explain the matter to you fully soon.  You do not think your father shall be entirely put out by the arrival of a mysterious stranger?”

“My father is an intelligent man, and I doubt you will be a mystery for long.  I have introduced you to his knowledge, though I may have, perhaps, exaggerated your aspirations and qualifications-”

“I do have a degree from Leiden, if you recall.”

“There are few pieces of paper that impress my father, save for large bank notes.  And as I doubt you have any of those on your person, I may have stressed your prowess as an author - and that you may have written The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.”  Sif frowned.  “Perhaps I should have chosen a less revolutionary text.”

“And why in the world should you do that?”

“As I said, my father may have run this plantation into the ground but he is no fool.  If he suspects you are anything but a man of means - and he will, within the day, his hospitality will be very, very brief.”  She glimpsed behind her and proffered a warm smile to a tall, sable-skinnedman with eyes that almost looked golden, striding down from the veranda.

“My sister speaks the truth.  Which makes me wonder why she should care for one who, by her own admission, does not,” the man intoned in a resonating baritone, marked with the same creole drawl that had crept back into the Lady’s vowels.  

"Oh my dear brother. Give him at least a sliver of a chance to persuade you," his sister said, hooking her arm around the man’s, dwarfed by his formidable size. She offered nothing more in way of explanation, but when it came to natural sons, especially those of one of her father's domestics, perhaps less explanation was the wiser path.

Her brother, in turn, looked at the Liar with a discomforting gaze.  "Giving heed to anything that man says seems a dangerous idea."

The Liar had the social graces to bow his head in respect, and the good sense to realize that while he should fear her father, he should fear the Lady’s brother more.

 

\---

 

"You are a philosopher." Her father did not mean it as a question, but an unveiled accusation.  

"And a naturalist, and something of a surgeon, when the occasion warrants. " The Liar cleared his throat, watching waves of discomfort ripple around the room, from those seated at the table to to the domestics weaving around it, watching with keen discretion the verbal skirmishes.  "If you mean to ask if I can support myself, then the answer is yes."

The Lady beamed in the flickering candlelight. "He is quite well regarded in Copenhagen, and London and Paris. Those same circles have accepted me, after a fashion, and while the place is by no means perfect,  it would be somewhere that would be far preferable than these miserable islands, for all of our family."

The Lady looked to her brother, then her father,  and her meaning was so plain a blind man might have seen it.

"I send you abroad, so you might acquire deportment and graces and perhaps even a husband of even moderate income and instead you return with a pinch-faced penniless philosopher and the screech of an abolitionist.  I should have kept you here."

Dinner arrived as a mercy, for it cut the precarious conversation short.  The Liar fully expected to be dismissed before dessert, but perhaps it was the sheer distance of the plantation from Christiansted, nestled in the hills away from the dread miasmas near the coast that convinced her father to grant him lodging for the night, in rooms as far from the Lady’s chambers as possible.

It was only the kindness of one of the domestics, stunned and grateful the Liar merely wanted guidance to his lover’s room, and not the gross liberties visitors to plantations apparently were wont to take, that allowed for a proper reunion.

“You are a fool,” the Lady whispered, hurrying him into her chambers as the young domestic smiled and closed the door.  The room was spacious, airy, thin curtains fluttering in the night breeze.  Only a few landscapes decorated the walls, and the tables near her bed both held stacks of books, though he could not make out the titles.  He had more pressing matters to engage his attention as her lithe body, clad only in a thin nightgown that left precious little to the imagination, pressed against his.  

"Then I submit myself fully to you for enlightenment." A hand tangled in the curls that spiraled to her shoulders as he kissed her, lips and limbs joined and entwined with the urgency and ardor that only a prolonged absence would ignite.  It was some moments before he could even speak, or even wished too, for that matter, but he knew this moment was fleeting, stolen, and not likely to last long.

His other hand was weighed down by a heavy burden, one he hoped that would make both their hearts light.

“Why have you come?  Do not doubt my happiness but my father cannot abide you, and he will pass you along to the next plantation as soon as the sun rises.”  She pulled him further into the room, as if seeking to hide him further from her father’s prying eyes. If she saw his baggage, she did not yet comment on it.

“Because I am a miserable wretch without you, even more so than usual, and I cannot abide your absence, not when I know you do not wish to be here.”  The Liar sank down upon a simple chest at the foot of the Lady’s bed, lowering his satchel before he lifted her into his arms.  “You belong as little as I do, and it is even more plain now.”

“And if you and my father could speak two words without crossing swords, you would know the only place my father will go, besides our home, is to debtors’ prison.” Sif’s face was all tempered disappointment, despite her flushed cheeks, as she leaned down to kiss his brow.  “Even if the harvest should be abundant, and the sugar the finest on the island, and we can fetch a decent price for the molasses, we shall barely begin to pay what we owe to our neighbor.  He is a degenerate lech who ogles me like he does one of his antiquities, but what he wants is specie, not my impoverished person.”

“Will he take metal and glass, then?” He tilted her head downward, towards the rectangular shape covered in canvas.

The Lady raised a brow, but she did as she was bid, clambering from his embrace to lean down and take this token.  As she hefted it into her arms, a gasp escaped her lips, and the bundle nearly fell from her arms.  “You did not.  Tell me you did not!”

“I have indeed.”  The Liar’s hands joined hers to loosen the fabric, to reveal the fabric in all its shimmering, crystalline, priceless glory.  In the beams of moonlight casting silvery light into the room, the Casket seemed almost otherwordly.  It was not fit for a Comtesse - it was fit for a king.  “So apparently now I am liar, fool, and thief, and again a fool,for I give the casket to you.  See if it will settle your father’s accounts, free you from this purgatory, perhaps even allow your brother to come and glower at us in perfect freedom."

The Lady’s eyes were wide, her mouth agape, and she shook her head, as if trying to comprehend the gift.  “But why?  There are many ways I could describe you, yet the word charitable scarcely comes to my lips.”

The Liar laughed and traced a finger lightly across a scandalously bare shoulder.  “It is not charity. Have you not realized how much I ardently love and desire you?  And should you have an ounce of foolishness in you, and your father even a grain of sense, I should make you my wife.”

He was expecting many possible responses, but not such raucous laughter.  She pressed a hand to her lips, not wishing to alert anyone in the house to the Liar’s proposition.  “Your wife? Oh, what cruel mockery.”

The Liar set the casket down besides them, and again gathered his beloved into arms that wished to do nothing but hold her.  “I would never be cruel,” he said.  He paused as her brows furrowed and a smile tugged at her lips.  “To be precise, I would never show such cruelty to you.  Devotion, worship, perhaps some mockery, for I cannot help it, but never harshness, or wanton neglect, or-”

The Lady’s lips upon his own silenced his explanation.  Her laughter was merrier, her hands warm upon his cheeks.  “Should I say yes, will you finally stop speaking?”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sif returns to St. Croix in the present day, as the fight for the Casket looks more desparate. In 1793, the Liar and Lady's happiness is interrupted by mysterious weather, and an even more mysterious (and dangerous) stranger.

St. Croix, USVI - Present Day

 

Loki cracked an eyelid open as something struck him on the forehead.  He rubbed his bleary eyes, and it still took his sleepy brain a moment to realize yes, Sif was there, and not in a dream.

And she was lounged in a chair near the bed, dressed only in a grey, close-fitting A&M t-shirt and a pair of black panties, throwing crumpled sheets of paper at his head.

“You would fit right in at Santa Fe.  ‘Throwing things at Loki’ is the official hobby in our office.” Usually the players were dressed, but for Sif he would make an exception.  He groaned and rubbed at his eyes, noting the change in the light.  “How long was I out?”

“Long enough for me to wonder who the one with jet lag is,” Sif said with a deserved smirk.  

Loki grinned and ran a hand through disheveled and sweat-encrusted hair.  Legal drama be damned - Loki had his priorities when Sif’s plane had come into Christiansted that morning.

“I don’t think it has anything to do with travel,” he said, his smile widening as Sif came down from her perch and straddled his hips, her hands resting lightly against his bare chest.

“My God, woman, you’re insatiable.”

Sif bent low, her hair brushing against his bare skin like so many strands of silk.  “And you need a new line.”

They emerged once, because they needed food and something to drink after their little marathon, and because if they didn’t give the rest of the team a report, Darcy was going to eventually going to knock down their door, ties on the knob be damned.  The chances weren’t good, in fact, they were horrible.  The Casket was too obscure, too shrouded in mystery to make a definite case for a non-French point of origin, and most of the Scandinavian governments, not just Denmark, were wary of going to bat for the Odinsons, at least with Thor involved.

Loki could sense a pity party brewing, and not wanting anything to dampen his oddly happy mood, or make Sif to feel worse before she had to, they escaped to a hammock in a clearing, their own little retreat.  So Loki fell out of it more than once during a few more vigorous motions, but he had Sif, her body gleaming like a pearl, curled against his chest, and they had a canopy of stars.  The casket might be heading back in a few days, and Sif soon after, but for tonight, and a few more nights, he had her, and damned if he was going to let her go.

He shuddered, and wrapped his arms around the sleeping, nearly naked Sif.  A chill that felt more like Copenhagen than its former colony whistled through the flower-scented breeze, and he couldn’t help but smile.

Next time, he’d tell Sif not to pack the cold.

 

* * *

 

St. Croix, Danish West Indies - 1793

 

The Lady’s fingers grasped tight upon the curtains as she watched the snow fall upon the sugarcane, already browning as it withered in the cold.

She did not know what price the Casket would possibly fetch, yet she wondered if would even begin to account for the losses that threatened with every flake, every breath of cold wind.  The island had never seen such a thing, and it was only St. Croix so afflicted, if the sailors and their scuttlebutt could be believed.

“It will stop.  It must.”  A familiar and exceedingly welcome voice sounded at her ear, and hands even more familiar encircled her waist.  “If nothing else, perhaps the so-called gentleman next door will now be in as dire condition as your father, and he will show more generosity.”  She felt his laughter upon the nape of her neck.  “Let us hope he indeed buys the casket before he becomes over-concerned regarding his accounts.”

The Lady turned, but his arms remained entwined about her waist.  “He wishes to buy it?”

“He has.”  He twirled a finger around one of her curls.  “I am an exceedingly good salesman if I so wish to be.”

“I am glad you have another profession to fall back upon, when your words fail.” His disapproving scowl did nothing to dim her joyful countenance.  “I am relieved and yet, sorrowed to see such a lovely thing in his fat and grimy hands.  He cannot possibly appreciate it as I do.”  She could not see the Casket as mere bauble, but as all the knowledge she acquired, fought for, given life and beauty.

“Do you not mean as we do?”

"Can you tell me anything about it beyond the fact it is now purloined?"

He laughed and traced the strong line of her jaw with an attentive finger.

"Fine, fine. But we should have passage anywhere we like. Considering Copenhagen may be somewhat hostile, and the rest of Europe unpleasant with this latest war..." He smiled and held his other arm wide. "Why not the world?"

Before she could reply,  a terrifying flash of light and clap of thunder shook the house to its foundations and caused the Lady to stumble into the Liar, whose quick hold upon the curtains saved them from a tumble to the ground.

"Now I see why Franklin was so enamoured of storms," he said dryly, even as his pulse quickened. He could hear the screams of the domestics, high-pitched, even more incoherent pidgin. It was only a storm, and the island weathered hurricanes which had stripped it bare. How could one clap of thunder, however close, be so terrifying?

The door shattered open, and the Liar had his answer.  A brute with blond locks, like some Grecian god come to life save his threadbare contemporary clothing, towered in what was left of the doorway. In his hand was a hammer that threatened both by its size and the manner in which the man hefted it in their direction.

The brute's voice was as low and rumbling as the thunder.

“You thought you could hide, but I have found you.”  The Liar felt a chill that had nothing to do with the snow.  “Now I will kill you by my own hand, Trickster."

 

* * *

 

St. Croix, USVI - Present Day

"Well you can tell her to fuck herself, and you can tell her fucking lying, thieving ancestors to fuck themselves too!"  Darcy was evidently trying to be heard in Copenhagen even without her cell phone.

Loki raised an eyebrow and looked around at the table of exhausted and dejected archaeologists and staff, staring into mugs, pushing cold food around plates, or looking nowhere in particular.  You’d hardly think they were on a tropical paradise. "Let me guess. Lafee won the case?"

"No, that was me trying to be a good winner." Darcy slammed her phone on the table, her forehead following soon after. Jane stared into her cold coffee, Thor's hand on her shoulder.

Sif sat rigid and unmoving at Loki's side. He reached beneath the table and took her hand. Even she was too proud to let her grief show, her fingers still curled around his.

There would be other victories, other triumphs, but he knew what it felt like to bear a bitter loss.

At least she didn't have to go through it alone. That he didn't wish on anyone.

"Screw this." Darcy lifted her head up and grabbed Jane's hand. "We're drinking our sorrows away." She raised an eyebrow at everyone else. "Coming?"

Thor shook his head. He knew after a night out with Darcy, Jane would need someone sober. And Loki knew Sif wanted to go out as much as he did, which was not at all.

Darcy sighed and threw up her hands.  "Fine. We're calling a cab," Darcy said. "Don't wait up."

\---

Loki enjoyed seeing Sif happy, but if she took out her anger on his willing body like she just did every time, it might not be bad to rile her dander every now and then.

He pulled the blanket over her sprawled, nearly naked form, keeping her warm against a sudden chill. Sleep smoothed over her rage, eased her disappointment, and he simply sat and watched her for a moment more.

He leaned over to press his lips against her hair, then pulled on one of his Exeter shirts and his grey boxer briefs.

There was something else he needed to say goodbye to.

The Casket glimmered in its tank in the house’s little makeshift lab, suspended in a solution of  PEG. Loki shook his head as he stood before it, glimmering innocently, unaware of the grief it had caused.

"200 years and still causing trouble. You should take that as an honor." He traced his hands along the top of the glass walls.

"Her first find and this happens. God, as if graduate school isn't enough of a torture session." He looked down into the swirling currents. "But she's strong, unlike certain people here and I - I have no idea why I'm talking to a preservation tank but I may as well."

"I care about her. More than I should, but..." He laughed, shaking his head. "But if she's fool enough to let me, then I'm fool enough to love her."

He smiled and reached a hand into the cold, slimy depths. "But don't tell her quite yet," he said, and stretched his fingers out to give the Casket an affectionate and final touch.

 

* * *

 

St. Croix, Danish West Indies - 1793

 

“Beg pardon? The what?”  The Liar listened as the domestics fled, shrieking and screaming, from the intruder who violated its questionable sanctuary.

“The Trickster,” the man growled, the very air crackling with electricity. The hair upon the Liar's arms and nape rose, his pulse thrumming against his ears.  “And I shall not be fooled by your games, brother.  Not again.”

“Brother?”  The brute was a madman, crazed off new rum or bewitched by an Obi-man; nonsensical but more dangerous, perhaps, because of his delusion.  “Now you even make less sense than before.”

“Silence!  You are Loki-”

The Liar could not help but laugh, as the depth of the man’s madness became clear.  “Loki?  I, good sir, am Markus Lauridsen, of Copenhagen.  Though I have been compared to a god of mischief before.”  He may not have muscle, but Markus made up for this with overabundant wit.  “And who might you be?”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Past and present combine, as the truth about the Lord and Lady begins to become painfully clear. But what does this mean for Loki and Sif's future? Or for any of them?

St. Croix, USVI - Present Day

 

Thor had passed away the lonely hours arranging for the Casket's transfer. When he'd finished, and double checked every last shipment, Jane's side of the bed was still empty.

"Tomorrow is going to be a long day," he grumbled as he tugged his shirt off, dropped it besides the bed.

What Thor did realize is that the night would be equally long. It wasn’t until his iPad nearly died that he realized he’d wasted three hours on Darcy’s infernal game.  He tried music, deep breathing, but he still could not sleep.

His outstretched arm felt nothing but the empty space besides him.  They were used to being apart, out of necessity, but tonight her absence was keen.  He was just beginning to drift into a dream when a shattering burst of thunder shook the entire house.

The entire house seemed to shake, as if it was at sea, and he could not tell if the storm was real or his dream.

The first crash was followed by another, a grey blur smashing through his wall and coming to rest in his outstretched hand.

He bolted upright, his heart pounding in his chest, the hammer resting where Jane’s slight form usually would be.  He yanked it away, even the thought of it harming Jane too much to bear.  He shook his head, as if it would shake away the dream, but the hammer remained, a formidable weight.  

One hand rubbed at his sleep-addled eyes, the other closed around the leather-wrapped handle.  He stumbled to his feet, peering through the new window the hammer had created.  Sleep-addled eyes turned to the hammer, noting the runes carved upon it.

Thor didn’t have the gift with languages his brother did, so when the runes seemed to waver and become legible, though he’d only ever read runes before with a dictionary, a large bottle of wine, and hours to spare, he leaned toward this moment being nothing more than a vivid dream..

"Whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy..."

 

* * *

 

St. Croix, Danish West Indies - 1793

 

The Lady drew her arms across her chest to preserve her modesty. “He has a hammer, he comes during a storm," she said, as Markus removed his coat and placed it upon her shoulders. "He believes he is Thor!"

Markus looked the deluded would-be god over carefully, alas finding nothing to suggest an explanation for his behaviour beyond copious amounts of drink. “Thor.  As in the ancient God of Thunder?”

Despite the possible danger they were in, the Lady rolled her eyes. “Did you think I made reference to another? Yes, the very Thor." She smiled sweetly at the intruder. "Is that who you meant?"

Thor interrupted their squabble.  “Silence!  Sif is mine, how else could she know my very person?”

The Lady’s politeness vanished with shocking swiftness.  “My name is Miss Gudrun Sorensen, and though your garb be completely wrong, your hammer seems to be that wielded by Thor, and moreover, your name is upon the runes etched into its side. That is how I determined who you believe yourself to be. And I am most certainly not yours."

Markus beamed at her brilliance. “If I ever doubted or mocked the value of those lectures we attended-”

Gudrun canted her head and raised a brow.  “Aye, you did both.”

The pinch at her waist would be more playful if it wasn’t for the beast of a man threatening them both.“I humbly repent of my error now.”

“Enough!  Has he poisoned your mind? You are mine, and have always been as such, no matter what lies he may whisper in your ear.”  The man’s grip was as a vice upon Gudrun’s arm, and the insistent pull, despite her protests, pulled her out of Markus’ arms.

In his other hand, the hammer crackled with lightning, as if a mast illuminated by St. Elmo’s fire, and the very hair upon his arms began to stand on end as he could hear the very air crackle, smelt something sharp in the frigid air.

“Did you not hear the lady? Unhand her!!”  Markus attempted to come to her aid, and was knocked violently aside for his valour, the blow knocking the very air from his lungs. Gudrun jerked away from the man, lashing out at him and all within her reach.  Her nails raked against his arms, her bare feet kicked out, but he refused to unhand her.

“Surrender the Casket and perhaps I will consider granting you a merciful death.” Still holding Gudrun fast, the man who believed himself to be Thor towered over Markus. He was remarkably unconcerned about his own life, but he should die to save her without a second thought.  

“I would defend this woman with all I have for I love her, but she is no more mine to give than she is yours to have.”  He fumbled for the canvas bag still at his side. “But I love her, so I will defend her freedom.  And this is the means by which she and her family will have it, so I will defend this too.”

Markus knew not what he would protect Gudrun and the Casket with, save a cutting word. Perhaps if it was especially sharp, it would postpone their deaths for a second, possibly even a moment.

The Casket, it seemed, had a far better plan.

No sooner than he lifted it into his hands then it began to pulse with an eerie blue glow that filled the small room and into the depths of the darkened house. A blast of frigid air colder than any wintry gale off the North Sea swirled around him, merging with the light and surging forth from the Casket, striking the stranger dead in the chest, trapping him in a thick layer of ice.

The casket trembled in his hands and he bowed his head. It felt as if the cold was burrowing into his skull, piercing it like a blade of ice. He could not make a word, or even a thought, and he thought his very mind might fly apart.

"Markus?" He heard a voice as from a distance - it was Sif. No, 'twas Gudrun. She was Gudrun, no matter what the ice-entombed man said, and he was...he was...

Loki's laugh was as bitter as the chill in the air. "I'm afraid dear Thor was right. Neither of us are who we seem to be."

 

* * *

 

St. Croix, USVI - Present Day

 

Sif jerked out of sleep at a thunderclap so loud she wondered if lightning had struck the house. Though it had woken her from a nightmare that everything to do with this damn case, the worries of the present - and the people in it - and the setting of the past. Her hand reached out for Loki, to reassure herself, and only found emptiness.

She threw on a well-worn white Aggie t-shirt and a pair of maroon Tempos, and set out to find him. The house was dark, foreboding, full of pale light and shadows.  Darcy and Jane were still on their inebriated pity party.  Thor must have joined them; Sif would have heard him snoring otherwise.

“Loki?” Sif’s voice seemed to echo back, and even though she was as big a skeptic as they came, she wrapped her arms around herself.  There were too many ghosts in her head, spectres too familiar for her liking, and they filled the dark and empty house around her.

“Damn it, you could at least leave a note.”  Sif gasped at a sudden blast of cold air coming from the area of the house the preservation team had taken over.  “And Jesus, Jane, you could turn off the air conditioner.”  She stomped into the lab, and in crossing over the threshold, walked into her nightmare.

Sif opened her mouth, but no sound came out, only a strangled sort of gasp.  She took a deep breath, and finally managed to utter his name, even if it wasn’t much more than a whisper.  “Loki?”

He looked up, crimson eyes bright against the pale mist filling the lab.  His hands were clasped tight around the casket, and they were blue as the rest of his body.

Even if everything else about him was unrecognizable, the smirk on his face was unchanged.  “Which Loki did you mean?  I doubt I’m the one you were expecting.”

 

* * *

 

St. Croix, Danish West Indies - 1793

 

What Markus should find the more extraordinary situation, that Gudrun was one woman with the memories of two, or that a the man she loved now had the form of a man she despised?

"They were right.” Gudrun - no, she was Sif - who recalled Thor’s hurried explanation, before Loki brought down chaos and destruction, not mere trickery, upon them all, so many centuries ago.  “You are a Jotun."

His smile was a bare flicker of its former self, and his crimson eyes seemed to glint in the dim light.

"I assure you, it was as much a shock to me the first time." He took a step closer, yet Sif did not step back an inch. Loki was the bringer of destruction and death, who had slaughtered Heimdall, led an alliance of enemies into Asgard; Markus was her lover, who hoped to be her means of deliverance and freedom.  She saw Loki’s form, and yet she thought she saw Markus’ soul, even in eyes the color of blood.

Who, then, was truly before her?  And who, truly, was she?  Who did Loki or Markus see before him?

"Give my dear brother my regrets, but I will have to render this reunion a brief one.”  Loki’s grip on the casket tightened, and Sif readied herself for a white light and for the ice to encase her person, yet it did not come.  His smile was false, and yet his eyes seemed almost pained to look upon her.  “May the two of you enjoy this miserable human existence together."

Before she could have the luxury of the last word, already forming on her lips, a pleading entry to the man she once knew and cherished, the mist flashed green, swirling about her.  When the light faded, Sif was alone, save for Thor’s still frozen form.

 

* * *

 

St. Croix, USVI - Present Day

 

Sif clenched her hands against her forehead. "This isn't happening. This is still a dream, too much rum, something."  Loki was blue, and beneath the migraine pounding away at her temples memories of a life hundreds of years long - and a much shorter life two hundred years ago - played like a choppy movie beneath her closed eyes.

"Yes, because denial is such an effective technique." His voice dripped with venomous disdain, new and, at the same time, too damn familiar. "Ask my dear parents how well that worked out."

"Seriously?" Sif rolled her eyes and would have smacked the casket out of his hands if it wouldn't have burned her. That and in this life, destroying it would add at least a year on to her dissertation. "We just remembered we're reincarnated gods, and complaining about your parents is the first thing you're going to say to me?"

Even when she was a goddess, Sif and patience weren't on the best of terms.

Loki laughed, shaking his head. "You never change."

"I wish I hadn't.”  Sif folded her hands across her chest, a tight smile on her lips.  “It was a lot easier when I just hated you."

"Be honest, it was more complicated than that.”  It may have been the quickest of gestures, but Sif caught Loki’s grimace, and she knew he was remembering just how complicated things were.

“You say complicated,” Sif retorted, raising a single brow.  “I say the Norns have a sick sense of humor and wanted to see what would happen when the universe threw us back together.”

“Chaos, destruction, ungodly levels of sarcasm?”  Loki paused, smirking.  “On occasion, some rather incredible sex?”    

Sif rolled her eyes.  He was not going to see her blush at that.  “So why didn’t we remember before?  We dragged this thing off the ocean floor together, and it would have been nice to know our history before we...” Sif waved her hand, hoping her meaning was plain.

“Before we made the beast with who knows how many reincarnated backs?” Loki’s vicious smirk dampened, and Sif knew he’d come to the same conclusion that had flashed into her mind.

Raindrops rattled against the roof without warning, and another crack of lightning struck overhead, but Sif didn’t even see the flash.  Reflected in the tank’s glass walls and in Loki’s blood red eyes, she saw Thor, shirtless, disheveled, with Mjolnir hefted in one hand.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Casket's tragic history comes to light, as of those connected to it. But is the past doomed to repeat itself? Can Loki, Sif, and Thor break the patterns of fate? (Also, can Darcy deal with a drunken Jane?)

Waters off St. Croix, Danish West Indies - 1793

 

The casket was in a ratted canvas sack, tucked between his knees. The hold smelled of rot, shit, and salt but at least it was freedom, of a sort, for an indefinite amount of time.

Captains in these parts were always pathetically eager for people to sign on - the Asgard has the misfortune of carrying enough Englishmen among its crew to attract the attention of one of their naval vessels, and the captain now had the bare minimum of hands.  But a little persuasion - a skill he possessed in abundance in this life, and evidently even more in his past - had encouraged the captain to sail early.

Maybe Thor would find him.  The encounter had shaken him, infuriated him, and yet-

Sif had not turned away, not completely.  True, she was as horrified as he to see his true nature so boldly displayed, but she had not gone instantly to Thor’s side.

“But she will betray me soon enough,” he growled, only a few rats squeaking back in reply.

“She will what, exactly?”

A young man, beardless and smooth faced, came down the hold - no, it was Sif, dressed in the checkered shirt and loose trousers of a sailor, her hair now short, barely coming to her shoulder.

“What are you doing here?”  Loki tightened his grip upon the bag, ready to cuff Sif across the temple or drag her by the arm and expel her from his sanctuary and back to Thor. The fact that she had resisted Thor, even when her memory returned, tempered his anger, if only slightly.

“I do not give a fig about the lives of the Trickster and the Shieldmaiden.  If I did, I should have stayed with one rather frozen Thor.”  Sif shrugged, and continued to walk towards him.  “I considered it, yet, I do not know the man, not in this life, and I do not wish to.”  

Loki fixed his jaw and looked anywhere that was not in her direction.  He had told more falsehoods than truths, in his life before, of that he was certain.  Then why did her plea sound like truth, and not a mere ploy to give Thor more time?  And why did part of him - not merely Markus, but Loki as well, respond to said truth?  “I do care about this existence and this time and I care a great deal about the man whom I love.”  She paused, and raised an eyebrow.  “That would be you, before you try to silence me with a cutting remark.”

“That man has vanished.  He thought himself so wise, but he knew nothing of before, nothing of who we are.”  By the Nine, why could she not simply strike him across the cheek and be done with him already?  Fleeing in hurt and anger was far simpler than dealing with the maelstrom of feelings and his kaleidoscopic thoughts.

Sif strode forward and placed herself directly in front of him with one hand upon her hip.  “If he is truly dead, and if there is no trace of love or affection in you, then kill me, with that casket, or by some other means.  I am certain you will find a way.”

The only sound was the creak of the planks, the commands barked above as the ship got under weigh.  Loki willed himself to reach for the casket, part of him screamed to do so, and yet a memory of Gudrun would steal upon him, of her laugh, her smile, the throaty moan he and he alone knew, and even deeper, a memory of Sif, of a single night where mutual distrust became something more.

Loki swore and, instead of gripping the casket, he took hold of her, hands tight upon her shoulders, and kissed her as if he were drowning and she was his only air.  Her eyes were bright as they opened, one of his hands wandering to run through her short hair, the look and feel so very familiar.

“It was I who cut it then,” Loki said, stroking her soft and newly shorn tresses.  So I could always have part of you with me, despite Thor.  You infuriated me and yet, how I wanted you. How I desired you.  Loki may have wanted all the realms yet...”  Loki pulled her close again, pressed his lips to her forehead.  “I think Markus the more enviable man.  For he will have you the rest of his life, however long that may be.”  

The gentle creaking and the rhythmic pull of the sailors’ shanties gave way to an all-too-close clap of thunder and more polyglot screams, and Loki thought his life may not be much longer indeed.

 

* * *

 

St. Croix, USVI - Present Day

 

Jane was, in Darcy’s opinion, absolutely adorable, and when she was drunk, she achieved a level of cuteness that shouldn’t be possible on earth.

Still, propping up all that cuteness when it could barely walk was annoying as hell.

Darcy hoped Loki and Thor had put their headphones in, because Jane was stumbling into every wall in the house.  Darcy was trying to help keep Jane on her feet, to steer her towards her room and a boyfriend who would take care of her.

That was going to take all night at this rate.

“I wanna see the Casket,” Jane said, lurching in the direction of the lab. “I wanna give it a hug.”

Darcy patted Jane’s arm, which was slung across her shoulder.  “We’ll give the tank a big hug and then you, oof, drunk lady, are having a big sippy cup of water, some aspirin, and - ugh, how can you be this heavy - then you’re going to bed.”

Best case scenario, Jane had a little headache in the morning and was sipping 7-up until noon.  Worst case - well, at least Darcy wasn’t on Jane-hair-holding duty tonight, ‘cause that was gonna be an all nighter.  She should make Thor some coffee.

Walking into the lab and seeing the casket not only out, but being held by some blue freak that - holy shit, Loki was the blue freak - made Darcy realize she wasn’t thinking nearly bad enough in her catastrophe planning.  Sif was there and so was Thor, shirtless, holding a giant sledgehammer.

So not only did they walk in some bizarre, surreal, and awkward situation, but, on top of everything else, some of the people there were also barely dressed. And even if Thor looked like he was beyond his usual hotness levels, fact was Loki looked beyond pissed, Thor looked ready to crack some skulls, and Sif looked like she’d kill ‘em both before they even tried. And with a pissed drunk Jane added to the mix, all Darcy could do was sigh. This was way so beyond her paygrade.

Jane giggled and pointed at Thor.  “I told you he had a big hammer.”

“Sooo not the time to be ogling his metaphorical penis, Jane.”

“It’s not metaphorical!  It’s amazing...”  Jane’s goofy smile twisted into the intense concentration only the overeducated and the drunk possessed.  “Why’s Loki blue?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“Because he’s a frost giant,” Thor said, his voice somehow sounding deeper and sexier than ever.

“He’s a what? Jeezus, good joke you guys, but seriously, put the damn Casket back before Papa Smurf over there drops it.”

Loki raised an eyebrow or Darcy guessed he did, under all that makeup.  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Darcy.  Not unless Thor puts Mjolnir down first.”

“Puts what? Mew Mew?”

“Mjolnir,”answered Loki, Thor, and Sif together.  Jane tried getting her mouth around the word, but shit, just saying Mew Mew would probably be too hard for her now.

“Someone, and I don’t care who, is summing up what the hell is going on.  Like, now. Seriously, did you guys try to recreate people getting hammered on new rum?”

Great, now Thor was giving her the look Loki usually gave her.  “It’s an artifact of great power from Jotunheim-”

“English!  I don’t speak freaking Danish.”

Loki sighed, and even blue, he was still easily annoyed. ‘It’s a magic box that turns frost giants who were never told they were frost giants into their former state.”

Darcy pulled Jane back from trying to pet Loki’s arm.  “Why are you guys all talking like you did acid during a Comparative Mythology class?”

Sif finally spoke up.  “Because, we’re gods.  Or we were, anyway.”

Darcy blinked, and Jane just giggled, and damn it, why couldn’t they both be drunk out of their minds?  “So, you’re Thor.  Like Thursday Thor.  Like hottie who hung out with the Vikings Thor.”

“Yes.”

Darcy smacked Jane’s hand as she giggled and reached her wandering digits in the direction of Thor and his maybe magic hammer. “Do I need to call Odin and Frigga or are they in Olympus or whatever-”

“Asgard,” came three annoyed voices.

“Whatever. I’m getting drunkie to bed, but tomorrow morning, you better tell me what’s going on, and Loki, you better scrub the hell out of the bathtub or go join the Blue Man Group.  And Thor?”

“Yes?”

“This so isn’t getting you out of hold the drunk girlfriend’s hair duty.”

 

* * *

 

 

Waters off St. Croix, Danish West Indies - 1793

 

Flickering electrical flames licked at the masts, illuminating the tattered sails.  Thor stood to fore, Mjolnir heavy in his hands, the fury in his eyes making the human forms they had in this life seem even more frail.  

“HOW DARE YOU HIDE LIKE A COWARD, BROTHER!" Thor's voice thundered across the lightning-split sky, the entire vessel groaning and quaking at the loud rumble of his voice.

“I’m glad to see you still have all the grace and subtlety of a lumbering bilgesnipe,” Loki said, rolling his eyes.  While he could not quite remember what a bilgesnipe looked like, it seemed appropriate to deem Thor one. He and Sif looked up from the hold, watching the press of sailors flinging themselves into the water below.  He gripped Sif’s shoulders tight.  “I must confront him alone.  Do not make me freeze you to the deck to ensure you don’t do something rash.”

“Your memory must still be in tatters, if you believe I will shrink from a fight.”  She leaned up and kissed him with a ferocity that would have returned every image of her in all her glory.  “I may not be a shieldmaiden of Asgard at present, but I am Sif.  I will not cower below decks like vermin.”

“Of course you will not.”  He reached down for the bag holding the Casket, which felt so very heavy in his hands, and emerged onto the lightning-illuminated deck.

“There is no quarrel that cannot be settled with words,” Loki began as he stepped forward to face brother and stranger - but foe irregardless.  “Mjolnir is yours, the Casket is mine, and Sif is her own woman, who will decide where her heart lies.”  He chuckled as he lifted the shimmering cube from its trappings.  “Would you deny her that?”

“I would deny her a life with you,” Thor replied, and he raised Mjolnir in reply.

 

* * *

 

St. Croix, USVI - Present Day

 

“Brother-” Thor looked more surprised than he did upset, though that was likely still due to Darcy.  Still, Loki wasn’t letting the Casket, his only means of protection, out of his hands.

“We were brothers, before.  Raised like brothers, anyway.”  Loki felt a burst of manic laughter bubble up, looking down at his bright blue hands, knowing what the Casket in his hands could really do.  “It didn’t go so well.”

“You betrayed Asgard,” Thor said, but it didn’t sound so much like an accusation as a question.  “You were my brother, and her friend, but you turned upon us. We stopped you, all of us, before the other realms could burn, but then we were no more.”

“I was not a friend!” Loki shouted.  “I was Thor’s odd little brother with dark hair, a so-called coward, with my magic, barely tolerated. And then found I was truly a monster,” he said, his voice almost a hiss.  “A monster in a gilded cage, an artifact like the damn casket, hidden away until there was use for me!  Why should I have had loyalty to such a place?  Was it so bad, to want to watch such a place burn, to vanish from existence?” The Casket trembled in his hands, and he could feel cold tears stinging at the corner of his eyes.  He looked away, from Thor, from Sif, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Was it so wrong, I no longer wished to exist anymore?”

“But we did exist again, two hundred years ago, with the Casket.  And you and I, you-” Damn it, why couldn’t Sif just say the word?  “You cared about me,” she said to Loki, her voice loud enough they could probably hear her in St. Thomas.

Usually Loki couldn't shut up, but he didn't utter so much as a syllable in protest.

“I did,” he managed, when he could speak again, though his hands and his words shook.  “I did care, so very deeply, but once Thor returned, once he remembered...”  He felt like he was going to be sick, felt a cold that had nothing to do with the casket.  “Do you think I will stand by and let that happen again?”

 

* * *

 

Waters off St. Croix, Danish West Indiea - 1793

 

It all happened so quickly, and yet with such excruciating slowness.

Thor had raised his hammer, lightning dancing upon its well-worn, battle-scarred planes.  The Casket tumbled from his grasp, but Markus - no, Loki - made a desperate lunge in its direction.

Sif stepped into the chasm separating the once brothers, now strangers engaged in a soon to be deadly battle.  It was perhaps not the wisest choice, since all she had were only dim memories of their lives before. Sif had challenged Thor enough on Asgard and had earned his respect and his love. Why should Sif as Gunna do otherwise?  

“Thor, stop! This is madness, we merely wish to depart!  Please, have nothing more to do with us, in this life or the next.”  She held out her hands to his, prayed to whoever now inhabited the heavens that Thor would listen.

“There will not be a next,” Thor growled.  “And I will not forgive him for the last.”  He raised his hammer, and Sif could see nothing as the world flashed white all around her.

 

* * *

 

 

St. Croix, USVI - Present Day

Thor’s righteous anger crumbled and Mjolnir grew heavy in his hand.

“I did not mean - I could not imagine what would happen.  I only saw Loki and Sif, I did not see who you had become.  I never meant-” Thor turned away, scarcely able to look at Loki, unable to even glance at Sif.  

“But you did,” Loki said, his voice low and dangerous.  “You promised, you swore we would not have a next life, but here we are.”  Loki laughed, his smile bright and bitter.  “Tell me, are you planning on trying that little experiment again?”

 

* * *

 

Waters off St. Croix, Danish West Indies - 1793

 

Sif tried to catch her breath, but she could scarce draw it into her lungs.  She looked down to her hands, slickened with blood, felt tears, just as hot, tracing down her cheeks.

Beneath her trembling fingers, the damning piece of wood refused to move.  Sif had fought many things and won, but even a once goddess had to yield to death.

Her own death, however, should have been a preferable thing.  Then she could have been stoic, unyielding, even if she was uncertain just where her soul might wander.  It would have been her words to offer comfort, not her ears that refused to be comforted.

Loki’s breath came in wet, rattling gasps, pale lips now crimson.  His fingers fluttered and trembled in hers.  Sif had never seen Loki so much as waver in the face of adversity, and yet now, in her all-too-human hands, he looked nothing but afraid.

“Go with him,” he said, a fine spray of blood misting across his cheeks.  “Don’t die here with me.”

“You may give up so easily, but I’ll have no truck with such talk,” she said, gathering Loki into her arms as icy water began trickling down the deck.  The ship was lurching into the sea, stricken from the fatal blow Thor’s lightning had rent, her lover was slipping away with each painful breath, but Sif refused what little hope remained in the tight and painful hollow that held her heart.

She looked to Thor, to Loki’s destruction and now his only hope.  “You will take us both to my father’s.  He’s a surgeon, and perhaps he may yet save him.”  Sif blinked, checking her tears, refusing Thor the sight of her grief.  Loki’s eyes were scarcely open, and he grew colder and more listless with each moment that passed.  “If you still have any kindness for me you will do this.  I love him, now.  Please...”

“He was unarmed.”  Thor took slow, almost lurching steps backwards as the ship pitched, nearly throwing him into the ship’s waist.  “He only wished to protect you.”  His attention fixed on a rapidly spreading puddle, dark with blood, pooled around his feet, not the doom at his back.

Sif rested a hand upon Loki’s bloodied chest, and it was too long a pause in between his shallow breaths.  “He is still alive, but I doubt for much longer unless you act.”

“I cannot,” Thor shouted, almost frantic, as his haunted gaze left her and fixed onto Mjolnir, which swung back, as if of its own accord, over the railing, over the dark, merciless waves below.

“You would leave us to die?!” Sif’s hands clutched even more at Loki’s limp body, and her voice shrieked louder than any gale.

“Do you not understand?”  Thor tried to lift Mjolnir, to bring it into the ship, not over the wind-tossed ocean.  Only then did Sif realize his effort was out of utmost desperation.  Thor arched his entire body back, yet the hammer did not move.

Mjolnir had deemed him unworthy, and now he would drown for her judgement.

“I am sorry,” he mouthed, or so Sif believed, and then he was tumbling, over the rail and into the sea he had swept up with his own hand, and was gone.

That sea was not content to wait for them to perish, but flowed ever more quickly into the ship, around and upon their joined bodies, and Sif strained to keep Loki’s head above the water.  She could scarce tell he still lived, save for the smallest rise and fall of his chest, and the look of pain upon his featured each time he did so.

“You will not leave me,” she begged, and a wave broke upon the bow, toppling them into the water, and now Sif fought to keep her own head above the water.  “Fight for me, if you shall not fight for your own life.”

“You are ever the hopeless optimist, but I am too cynical-”  His words, quite possibly his last, were broken by a cough that wracked his frame, and splayed blood upon her cheek.  But his chest stirred, and his eyes opened once more. “Should we have a next, I will do as you bid.”

And then he was gone, blue eyes fixed and unseeing, naught but a lifeless body, a mere shell in her arms.  Sif’s tears were as many as the sea enveloping them, and she clung fast to his body, even as the ship sank further into the deep, the water taking them in its embrace, lifting them up gentle as babes.  Sif managed a few feeble kicks, but she’d no knowledge of swimming.  Perhaps it was best, she reasoned, her thoughts dimming, if her death were not a long one, and she rejoined her lover soon, in whatever realm would claim their souls.

The Casket had already sank, still casting an eerie blue light, even beneath the waves. The glow, as iridescent and mysterious as moonlight, was enough to illuminate the two bodies as they slowly drifted downwards, their hair turned to dark, undulating halos, hands no longer feeling but still clasped fast, and to cast a fleeting shadow of the lone body, falling far faster, pulled by its burden and judgement to the ocean floor.

 

* * *

 

St. Croix, USVI - Present Day

 

Mjolnir slipped out of Thor's hands, nearly splintering the wooden floor.

"As soon as it struck, I knew." Thor's hands hung, purposeless, at his side. "That he was guilty of being nothing but an echo."

"200 years for an apology?”  Loki’s smirk was a thin shadow of itself, but it was still firmly on his lips.  “I don't know if that's sad or an improvement-"

Sif glared at the still-blue Loki. "Don't even start." She nodded towards the work table, strewn with coffee-stained papers.  "Put it down."

"But-"

"Don't even. You both know I don't need a magic snow globe or that little hammer to kick both your asses."

"Fine. But if he kills me again, you are getting such an 'I told you so' in the next life."

The blue faded from his skin the moment he set the casket down. Loki drew in a hesitant breath, holding his hands up to make sure they were their usual pale hue.

"Well." Loki smirked. "Quite the odd and somewhat annoying situation we're in."

Sif raised an eyebrow. "What am I? Annoying, or what knocks it down to somewhat."

"You are - my God, I'm still trying to figure out who I am, what I am." He ran a hand through his hair, making sure the change had been complete. "You're a part of my life, but I don't know what my life means anymore."

"Neither do I, but I know I'm not going to let something that happened a thousand years ago undo my entire existence. This life?  It’s ours, not theirs.  I’m going to treat it that way, or I’m going to try to, possibly with a little therapy.  And if you two can’t at least give it a shot?  You're not the men I thought you were."

Loki huffed and almost reached for the Casket.  “If he agrees not to try and kill me.“

“Only if he agrees not to bring about the end of this realm as well.”

Sif pinched at the bridge of her nose.  It was a start.  “No manslaughter and no apocalypses.  Fair enough.”  She glared at the men through her hand.  “And no talking about Asgard.  Just for right now, anyway.”

They grumbled in a sign Sif took to be assent.

“I know you guys have a rocky history.  Even my advisor thought I should use a different outfit for my project because who knows what would happen with the Odinsons.”  Sif frowned.  “He was more right than he knew, but at some point, any point in your lives, have you actually loved each other?”

Of course Loki would be the first to protest.  “Love is a strong word.”

Thor didn’t even roll his eyes, which told Sif how used to this little exchange.  “Brother, enough.  I have loved you, despite all your protests, and even when you have been less than loveable.”  Thor frowned, and he placed a hand against the table.  “If we are going to tell the truth of things, Loki, if you had not called me before you drove out to the gorge-”

Now instead of turning blue, Loki went even paler than usual.  “Thor, don’t-”

“If I had not made it in time, and if you had...”  Thor could not finish his sentence, but he didn’t need to.  The bridge over the Rio Grande, near Taos, was beautiful but deadly.  And it was barely over an hour from Santa Fe. “I could not have borne that loss.”

Loki had sunk into a chair, and Sif just wanted to - God, she had no idea, besides hold him and never let him get on anything higher than a ladder.  She settled for taking his hand, and to her surprise, and gratitude, he let her keep it.

“It wasn’t a good time in my life.  Obviously,” Loki said, not elaborating on the details, but she felt no need to pry.  “I’d taken a leave from school.  I was home, helping my father, and one day-”  He tried to smile, but the gesture just broke Sif’s heart, as she was sure it did Thor’s.  “It just seemed entirely logical, driving out there.  Except calling Thor, which made no sense, but...”  Loki cleared his throat, and turned to his brother.  “I will say he did one act which, although I didn’t appreciate at the time, I am grateful for now.  And if that is love then yes, I suppose I love him.”

Sif’s hand closed around his own, her other brushing a single tear from his cheek.  “And what are these other lives compared to that?”

Loki smiled, and even if his eyes were still a little watery, he looked happy.  Not ecstatic, and there was still a lot of sorrow there, but there was happiness, too.

“I see who got the way with words this time around,” Loki said, even sounding more like himself.  He turned to Thor, whose cheek looked a little wet, too.  “I think I have an answer for you.”

“To what question?”

“If I love Sif.”

Sif coughed, her cheeks flushed.  Loki stood up, still holding onto her hand.  “If love is being grateful to the people who save your life, or make it worthwhile, then yes, I love her.”  He raised an eyebrow at Thor, and SIf noticed Loki’s hold was both affectionate and protective.  “Is that a problem?”

Thor paused, gazing on Sif a long while. He was a great guy, probably even better in this life. His smile was gorgeous, he always bought the first round, he laughed at everyone's jokes but never at anyone.

The woman who probably helped bring that Thor out chose the perfect moment to start dry heaving.

The sound just made Thor smile. "I am in love with Jane. And even if I were not, as I told you, I want you to be happy. I'm glad she makes you so."  He glanced between Mjolnir and the Casket. "What are we to do with these? We can hardly give the Casket over now."

Loki raised an eyebrow. "To the former King of Jotunheim? Not the wisest idea."

"King?" Sif shook her head. "But Lafee was a - she was - I'm not going to ask."

Thor rubbed at his temple. "We could put them back where they once lay."

"And what if we are archaeologists in the next life?" Loki sighed, giving the Casket a suspicious look. "I'd rather our next incarnations have an easier time of things."

Sif looked between the two artifacts of their life before, a mischievous smile far more typical of Loki on her features. "I may not be Jane, but even I know what happens to metal when it’s super cooled."

\---

Darcy was going to grab the damn hammer and use it to beat the crap out of Thor if he didn’t come to assume his boyfriendly duties and let her get some sleep.  Also, there had been a huge crashing noise, so she supposed she should make sure everyone was still alive.

“Thor, you seriously have five minutes before she starts puking again, so get your shirtless ass in there and-”  Darcy almost tripped over her feet and came to a dead stop just inside the lab door.

There wasn’t a hammer anymore, just little bitty pieces of metal.  And the Casket was out of Loki’s hands, and in a million little pieces on the floor.

“You...you...you?!?!” Darcy could barely sputter the words out.  Her fists were balled up at her side, and for not the first time, Darcy wished furious on her didn’t look like angry kitten.  

“There’s going to be a shipping accident.  Horrible, really,” Loki said, clasping her on the shoulder.  He wasn’t blue anymore, but she didn’t care.

“It’s for a good reason, we promise,” Sif added, but Darcy could barely hear her over the sound of pure rage pounding in her ears.

“I’m going to bed.  And when I wake up, I’m getting the first flight home.  And when I get home, I am finding a job that pays me so much more to deal with this crap!”  Okay, maybe she didn’t mean to shout the last part, but it felt good.

Darcy stalked out, but whirled back around as she stopped in the doorjamb.  If she was quitting, she may as well let it all out, especially when they were all barely dressed.  “Oh, and seriously, put some damn clothes on!” She looked at Sif, who was tugging at the hem of her extremely short shorts.  “Four years of ogling them in Speedos and the only thing I’ve gotten out of it is a drawer full of dead batteries.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sif cleared her throat as she ran a finger down the length of Loki’s bare arm.  “So, about Heimdall...”

Loki groaned and propped himself up on his elbow, the sheets draped across his bare hips.  After Darcy’s little outburst and Thor going to hold Jane’s hair for a few hours, Loki and Sif had come back and dealt with the situation in the best way they knew how, which evidently was enthusiastic and plentiful sex.

Sif laughed and rested a hand on his chest.  “I’m just saying, I just want you and Heimdall to promise no mutually assured destruction when you do meet him.  He’s still my family.”

“I don’t know which of us came off worse in that department...”

It was weird, to say the least, knowing which friends and family had been so for centuries.  The Warriors Three had been texting her nonstop, begging Thor to come back to College Station with her, and asking her, over and over, if Loki really was on the up and up.  Thor had spoken to their parents - a talk Loki would be having once he was ready.  

Jane was still trying to keep down crackers and ginger beer.  Darcy had packed up and left, but she’d texted with a long screed on just how to stage the packing accident to absolve them of the blame, in theory.

Sif grinned and pulled him atop her, hands entangled in his dark hair.  “You’re going to be a joy to bring home.”

“You still want to bring me?”  Loki sighed and shook his head.  “You’re in love or you’re an idiot.”

Sif raised a brow as she pulled him down, a little harder than necessary, his weight pressed firmly against hers.  “This from the man who agreed to my crazy idea to destroy two powerful magical artifacts.  Now who’s the idiot?”

Loki leaned in to kiss her, which worked pretty well to keep her quiet.  “Hang the Casket.  I’ll have you, and not being assaulted to the constant livestream of megalomania run amok.”

Sif returned his kisses and touches in earnest reply.  “Sounds like more than a fair trade.”  She made a small, thoughtful noise in the back of her throat.  “Part of me wonders if there’s anything left of Asgard, besides us.  Part of me, though-”

“Wants to leave well enough alone?”  Loki leaned down, grazing his teeth against her collarbone.  “I understand that, though part of me would like to look for one small thing.”

“Well, that can’t possibly be your ego.  That seemed to have survived just fine.”

His hands raked on her sides, and she curled up laughing, nearly throwing him off her giggling, writhing body.

“I’m serious,” Loki said, hands brushing her neck, then cupping her breasts, then tracing lazy circles around her navel. “How would you like to go apple picking?”

 


End file.
